Practical Magic
by bite-or-avoid
Summary: You know, whatever happened to seeing someone across a crowded room, eyes meeting, that old black magic gets you in its spell… B/B *WARNING: SPOILERS through the end of the season*


**Disclaimer**: Not mine. But I really wish they were.  
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Booth believes in that old black magic. Of course he does; any guy as charming and attractive as him is bound to have been struck by the thunderbolt once or twice. Or ten times. Problem is, it's been a good long while since his gaze met a woman's across a crowded room and he's felt that spark.

Well, that's not _entirely_ true.

It happens all the time. She turns to him, smiles, and it's like no one else even exists. Therein lies the rub; no one but his partner has existed in his mind's eye for a very long time. She just doesn't know it. Doesn't have the faintest idea what she does to him. He can fight with her over the last of the Thai, share a wink and a nudge over drinks at Founding Fathers, but it can never mean what he wants it to.

Because what he can't give her by way of proof, what he can't ever _tell_ her, is that from the moment she stood nose to nose with him on those endless miles of long legs and told him she didn't believe in fate, he's been under her damn spell.

***

He can't just tell her that magic exists. He's waiting for her to feel it, to know, way down in her bones the way he does. He's waiting with all the hope and patience that a very wise chef counseled. But he's only human.

He can only take being lonely for so long.

***

The thing is…

The thing is, he's getting somewhere with Catherine. She may not be the woman he's dreamt about and fantasized over for as long as he can remember. She may not be the object of the all the desire and genuine affection screaming for release inside his heart. But she's a good person, intelligent and attractive. She makes him laugh, and that counts for a lot in his book. He can be happy with her, if he simply lets himself.

As if on some twisted sort of cue they teach at shrink school, Sweets essentially tells him and Bones that they need to shit or get off the pot already. Even if she can't recognize that as the underlying message, Booth sure as hell can.

So that's what he's doing. As soon as he decides… which one of those he's doing.

And in the meantime, if Catherine's dark hair and bright blue eyes bring him vicariously closer to a dream that keeps seeming farther and farther away, well…

He guesses, at some point, he'll have to settle for less than magic.

***

He has to give Hodgins credit for risking his heart like this twice.

Brennan's dress is blue this time; a rich, shimmering hue that enhances the color of her striking eyes. His breath catches, and he coughs, avoiding her concerned look by catching her hand and threading it through the crook of his arm. They smile at their respective dates as they walk down the aisle, fingers caressing lightly where his hand covers her own.

It's all so… appropriate.

For a second he wonders if this is how it's always going to be; that last shred of distance between them impossible to breach. If they'll always walk hand in hand and smile at other people on the sidelines, the boundaries intact between them also excluding intimacy with anyone else.

He won't ever voice it, but the damn kid is right. It's time to stop living in limbo.

"Booth, you have to let go."

His head jerks towards her lowered voice. She's tugging on the hand he's trapped within his grip, and he realizes that they've reached the altar.

Bones may not believe in fate or signs, but he does. Her words, innocent as they be, just made the decision for him. He lets all the love and loss and regret wash over him for a moment.

Then, he releases her from his grasp.

***

He feels like he's going to be sick.

His eyes rove frantically for something to hold onto, something to help him get through the ceremony without embarrassing himself. In the midst of the small gathering (Angela insisted on making everything completely different from the previous non-wedding), he finds a familiar face and latches on.

Gordon Gordon, ex-psychiatrist and wedding caterer extraordinaire, gifts him with a knowing look.

_Hope and patience. _

Booth is all out of both.

He hears Hodgins suck in a breath beside him, and there is a flash of white at the entryway. His vision swims and swirls, the back of his skull prickling with some suppressed memory. Finding something to focus on is the only way he's going to keep from losing it right now.

Everyone rises, gasps and sighs of approval washing over the room.

Booth is sure Angela looks exquisite. But he's not looking at her.

He is fixated on Brennan; on the long sweep of her neck, on the curve of her cheek. Fixated on the ghost of a dream, disguised as remembrance.

And all he can see, or hear, or _feel_, is himself and her in front of an altar; his Bren, his _Bones_, saying _I do. _

She looks over as if sensing his gaze, the corners of her lips curled up in the tiniest trace of a smile, and it hits him full force. The clench in his gut, the ache in his chest, the unbridled exhilaration coursing through his whole body. He's like a live wire, vibrating with intensity.

_Magic_.

He was wrong.

He can't settle for less than this.

***

Booth drops off Catherine with a kiss on the cheek and a lie about an aching back. He feels badly about it, but the emotional overload has left him too exhausted to make a very nice woman very upset right now. He drags his sorry ass home, gets out of the monkey suit, and crawls into an empty bed.

Despite the firm resolution to seal up his consciousness tight as Fort Knox, thoughts of Bones leaving the wedding with his boss trickle in as through a leaky sieve.

***

Minutes or hours of staring up into a darkened ceiling pass before the knock comes.

He knows that knock, knows its cadence, and his heart answers by pounding out a thunderous beat.

Sure enough, there she is; cobalt fabric lovingly enveloping her curves in all the right places, hair still swept off her neck in an elegant updo. She shifts in the doorway, looking surprised and uncertain when the door swings open. "You're awake."

He can't help but chuckle at her uncanny ability to state the obvious. "Well yeah, Bones. Did you expect me to answer the door in my sleep?"

"I wasn't sure you'd be here. You left with Dr. Klein, so I…"

She doesn't finish the thought, leaving him in suspense about why she would come to a place where she thought he _wasn't_. He shuffles his feet against the cool floorboards. "Hey, come on in so we can talk somewhere other than in my hallway."

As she moves past him to step inside, Booth has to resist the urge to brush his fingers against the silk-clad skin of her back.

There's not much more he can take tonight.

Head tilted a little to the side, teeth digging into the flesh of her lower lip, she studies him. The need to break the awkward silence is overwhelming.

"So, Bones, what brings you here at—" He sneaks a peek at the bright fluorescent lines on the cable box, "—three in the morning?"

"I was with Andrew."

He nearly groans at the blunt response. It's one of the things that infuriates him most, while attracting him the strongest. There's got to be some kind of anthropological reason for it that he couldn't give a crap about right now. She continues, heedless as ever of her choice of words and the effect they will have on him.

"I have been experiencing an extremely heighted level of sexual arousal all day. I don't understand why, as the ceremony of marriage does not appeal to me. Although, it _was _quite lovely. But there's no logical reason it should have affected me so strongly. Naturally, as a result of this reaction, I was very eager to go home with Andrew and engage in—"

"Woah! No, no, no, _no_, Bones!" He has to fight the sudden impulse to clamp a hand over her mouth. As if his own thoughts weren't disturbing enough, now she has to go and _confirm_ them?

"I was merely trying to explain—"

"We are _not_ talking about this." The flash of anger crossing her features makes him a little desperate. "Please. I… I can't."

"I realize that you are squeamish discussing things of a sexual nature, Booth, but I'm trying to tell you something important."

"I don't want to hear it, okay? I can't stand here and listen to you tell me you had sex with my boss, just to prove some sort of point."

"But I didn't have sex with him."

His head jerks up so fast that whiplash is a definite possibility. "What?!?"

"I did not have sexual intercourse with Andrew. I went to his apartment with every intention of relieving the tension I'd felt all day. But once we got to the door, I… I have no reasonable explanation for my actions. It just didn't seem appropriate anymore. So I thanked him for a nice evening and called a cab."

"And came here." His voice sounds hoarse, like his throat has been scraped raw.

"Yes. And came here."

"Why?"

Her eyes skitter away from his for a moment. He knows this can't be easy for her. Whatever it is she's doing. For the life of him, he can't figure out what it is.

When she speaks again, her resolute tone fills him with the warmth of familiarity. "You know I don't act on the basis of my emotions, Booth. But being there with him, it just… felt wrong."

She stares, misinterpreting his slack-jawed expression. "Don't you dare make fun of me. I wasn't using my gut."

He holds his hands up in mock surrender, waiting for her to continue. She begins to pace nervously across the room, manner still as determined as ever. "I concluded that my libidinous condition was most likely the result of a specific stimulus. I knew it wasn't the wedding, and I established that it wasn't Andrew. That left one logical possibility. You."

Everything inside him screeches to a grinding halt and restarts, skipping a beat. "I… you… huh?"

"It... it is my belief that what I experienced was specific to you, Booth. Specific to your presence."

His whole world is spinning on its axis, and he has no clue how to respond. She's looking more nervous by the second, and he needs to come up with something soon, or else she's gonna bolt and pretend the whole thing never happened.

Pretend like she didn't just do the bravest thing he's ever seen.

Pretend like she didn't just flat out admit that she _wants him_.

He knows he should reassure her, or tell her _me too, Bones_, or just grab her and kiss her senseless the way he's been wanting to for a painfully long time.

He doesn't do any of these things.

Because.

What she's saying right now? It should make him thank his lucky stars and dance for fucking joy. But the truth is, despite what everybody thinks, he is a giant idiot. A masochist, really.

It isn't enough.

He wants all of it. Everything. Everything he _knows_ she has to give.

He knows full well that he shouldn't be gambling at all, much less on the most important thing in his life. But, God help him, if ever there was a time to embrace one's addiction, this is it.

Roll the dice.

Shit, or get off the pot.

"Booth, I'm sorry if I embarrassed you. We can just forget—"

He takes a step toward her, cringing a little at the barely masked hurt in her eyes. "We've been attracted to each other since the minute we met, Bones. You know it, I know it, and thanks to our little exercise in denial—which totally backfired, by the way—even Sweets knows it. The question is, is that the same thing you felt at the wedding?"

She slips into her _rational scientist_ mode so easily that it would be admirable if he wasn't so aggravated by it. "As I said, I experienced all the classic markers of sexual stimulation."

He bites back a moan at the sight of those words leaving her lips. "That's it? You didn't… _feel_ anything else?"

"I did not experience butterflies in my abdominal cavity or envision hearts and flowers, Booth. Arousal is associated with the chemical release of—"

"Hah! You said the feelings cause the reaction!"

"What? No I didn't!"

"Yes, you did. When you did that toast thing you love so much, to Jared and Padme. You said that you were going to defer to my expertise in matters of the heart."

"You are completely oversimplifying—"

"Nuh uh, Bones. Don't even try to get out of it. You know me. You know what I want."

"But you have completely unrealistic expectations—"

"No, I don't. Is it really too much to ask for a little magic?"

"There's no such thing as magic."

"Oh, there's magic." He takes another step forward, the low timbre of his voice laden with meaning. She tilts her chin up in defiance, even as uncertainty flashes across her face.

_That's my girl_.

"No, there isn't. There is only illusion. Assumptions based on sensory distortion, utilized as autosuggestion to achieve a desired result."

"Next thing, you'll be telling me that it's all in the pheromones."

"Of course not! I can accept that what I feel for you is rooted in the need to consummate an emotional connection rather than just the desire for a physical release."

He has no response to that. Absolutely none. Never mind what she just admitted. He's even more stupefied by the fact that they've both been arguing the same exact point, each in a completely different language.

"Bones… that's…" No more words can get past the knot in his throat. But there's been enough words— more than enough words—between them.

He's always been more a man of action anyway.

***

"Booth?"

Her breath caresses the skin of his neck, and he can't restrain a satisfied smirk.

He'd lost count of the number of times his name left her lips in a breathy moan; the number of different ways he'd made her murmur it.

"Yeah, Bones?"

Her precise, talented hands weave patterns across his bare chest. In the last few hours, they've broken him apart and pieced him together again, reconstructing the way she would a shattered skull. As much as he's always marveled at what she could do with those hands, he could never really appreciate the full scope of it until now.

"Was that… what you meant by 'magic'?"

As much as he loves what she's asking, as much as that vulnerable catch in her voice leaves him pulsing with need, he can't give her an honest answer.

Not now. Not yet.

He settles for an answer that won't force them to dissect right at the moment the full impact of what they've done.

"When you say 'magic', I say 'illusion'."

She slaps him on the chest lightly, and matches his teasing tone. "Well, it certainly wasn't a miracle. Those are scientifically impossible."

"Right. And the universe didn't implode or anything, so…"

"So the laws of physics are still intact."

"Yep. 'Cause two objects occupying the same space—that's a no can do, eh Bones?"

"That is correct." She falls silent. He can practically hear the wheels in her head turning, and tries to look over to where her head rests against his shoulder. She shifts, dragging her lips against the angle of his jaw tenderly, then lifts her head to look at him. In the scant light, her eyes sparkle with something he doesn't dare name. "But we got close, didn't we Booth?"

He can manage nothing more than a hoarse, "Yes."

***

They don't speak again until much later.

Man of action, and all that.

As their bodies cool between the tangled sheets, Brennan curls into his solid bulk and stifles a yawn.

"I still don't believe in fate," she informs him without preamble.

"You didn't used to believe in love either. You'll get there."

She scoffs, gearing up for a retort, but he doesn't mind. It's good to know that some things won't ever change between them.

Besides, she doesn't have to believe in fate. She doesn't even have to believe in magic.

Because _he_ believes. He believes enough for the both of them.

_Fin._


End file.
